


Better than Evens

by Masu_Trout



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, The Felt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snowman makes a deal. (Not a good deal, and certainly not a fair deal, but a deal nonetheless.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better than Evens

You are the BLACK QUEEN, and you are extremely unhappy with the current state of affairs.

No, wait, scratch that.

You are the BANISHED QUASIROYAL, and right now you are sitting in a green room talking to a man with a snow globe for a head. The room has a lot to do with your general mood, because when you say green you mean _green_ \--green floors, green walls, green tables and lamps and chairs and clocks. (Even, impressively, a pure green fireplace with a small green flame licking at the charred remains of a few green logs. And—you carefully peer over out of the corner of your eye—yes, even the scorch marks are a peculiar shade of dark forest green.) It’s absolutely horrific, the kind of horror that makes you want to smash the place, burn it to the ground, and do it over _right_ , dammit. You are a queen and you have standards, and none of those standards involve drowning in green.

Of course, none of those standards involve wandering around desert planets or selling your soul to diminutive headless men either, but you would rather not think about either of those things. 

“Well, my dear?” the creature says, pushing a piece of paper and a green fountain pen across the table towards you. (Says, not asks. ‘Asks’ would imply he doesn’t already know how you’re going to respond.) “What do you say?”

You hate this man. You hate his green room and his green house and his green planet. You hate the way he calls you ‘my dear’. You hate the perfect arch of his posture and the way his nonexistent eyes seem to follow you around the room. You hate his voice, which sounds like a hundred broken records playing at once, filling the room with the calm hiss of his static until you just want to scream. 

Most of all, though, you hate that you need him.

“I agree,” you say sharply, and pull the contract towards you. The scratch of pen against paper is almost a relief, for a moment blocking out the sound of a thousand and one green clocks ticking in perfect synchronization. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like my end of the bargain, please.” Despite your reservations, you can almost feel your carapace shiver with excitement. An unfair deal this may be, but it is nevertheless a grand one.

Doctor Scratch _smiles_ somehow as he pulls the paper back towards him. He makes a great show of inspecting it, scanning the contract’s single page, running his gloved hands across the still-drying scrawl of your signature.

“Are we done?” you ask thinly after one single _fucking_ second too long of this sham. (You know it was one second. The clocks were kind enough to count it out for you.) You have the manners of a queen, but signing away one’s soul is enough to wear anyone’s patience thin. “There’s nothing in there we haven’t discussed for weeks already.”

Namely, one single clause. 

“Hmm.” Doctor Scratch humms idly, the sound a thousand records skipping in unison. You jump despite yourself, and he chuckles. “My apologies, of course. To frighten my new associate was, of course, not at all my intention.” It was. “But, to answer your question, I believe this will be more than satisfactory. The only thing that remains is to present this to my superior and allow him to uphold our end of the agreement.”

“Well then,” you say, quietly gritting your needle-sharp teeth. “Don’t you think you should summon him, then? I’d hate to waste any more of your time with these _silly_ formalities.”

Doctor Scratch chuckles softly.

“Call him? Whatever for? He’s been here all along.”

Someone is standing at your shoulder. You can feel a presence looming there, silent and horrible, but for a second you are overwhelmed by the simple logic of a child— _if I don’t turn,_ you think desperately— _he won’t see me._

You breath, in and out, and dig your claws into the olive fabric of the chair. The moment passes and you stand, a queen’s cold smile fixed firmly on your face. You turn.

“Hello,” you say to the hulking form of Lord English. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to do business with you.”

The thing snorts, sounding almost amused, and grasps your hand in one of his leathery claws. A handshake, you realize. Shaking hands with the Devourer of Universes. 

You _have_ moved up in the world.

“My lord!” Doctor Scratch sounds delighted, or at least what passes for delighted with him, and immediately jumps out of his chair, sweeping into a bow so deep he nearly hits his head on the table in front of him. “It’s a pleasure, of course, and—”

“Anyway,” you interrupt, motioning towards Doctor Scratch, “I believe what he means to say is that I have filled out all the necessary paperwork and would wish to proceed to the… practical elements, if you will.”

Lord English grunts, and carefully picks up the contract, his eyes darting back and forth as he goes through each line. It’s a relief, having his attention directed away from you—those spiraling, dizzying cueballs are tough to keep eye contact with. (And you take back what you said about the décor. If it means never having to watch that dizzying rainbow dance ever again, you will happily live in a green mansion for the rest of your life.)

He finishes soon enough, his gaze lingering on your green-inked signature for a long moment. He grunts again and nods, seemingly satisfied, then opens his mouth wide, crumples the contract, and very deliberately eats it. 

“ _What—_ ” you snarl, and move to claw his face, but you blink, he disappears, and your claws slice through empty air as Lord English grins at you from across the room.

“We had a _deal._ ” A horrifically shitty deal, sure, but you’d made it and agreed to it and now—and now _this_.

Lord English finishes chewing and grins, making a show of curling his pink-red tongue around the outer edges of his mouth. Licking his lips.

“Explain.” You turn to Doctor Scratch, your hands baled into fists, because at this point you’re not even certain if this ‘superior’ of his can talk, or if he’s just some beast Doctor Scratch keeps locked in his basement.

Doctor Scratch holds up his hands, the very picture of innocence, and that’s when you hear a sound from behind you.

“Contracts,” Lord English says, and pauses.

You turn.

You have heard the sound of guns firing and rockets dropping, of air transports containing innocent civilians dropping to the ground in balls of screaming fire. You have heard the cries of wounded soldiers, begging for water and medicine and death. You have heard the sound of Derse burning. 

You have never heard anything as horrible as the sound of his voice.

“Contracts,” he starts again, “Mean nothing here, Snowman.”

Snowman? You’re certain he’s talking to you, but you don’t know the term he’s calling you by and you have a vague feeling it probably isn’t flattering.

“I know you,” he continues. “I’ve seen you, before and after a thousand times. There need be no contract, because you would never honor it. You don’t consider this a trade, yes? This, to you, is a gamble. Can you deceive us, Snowman? Can you take our gifts and keep your life?”

He’s in front of you, suddenly, close enough you can feel his cold dry rattle across your carapace.

“The answer is no,” he breathes. “I have been there. I am there now. You will not lose, Snowman, because _you have already lost._ ”

You jerk your head up, meeting his multicolored glare with your own white eyes. “I think, _my lord_ , that I’d rather not take your word for such a thing.”

For a moment, nothing moves. You’re pretty sure that even the clocks have stopped ticking. Then, just when you’re sure he’s going to tear you apart, Lord English tilts back his head and laughs. The sound of it echoes through the room like thunder, meshing with the sound of the clocks until it’s all one and the same to your ears.

“Very well,” he says finally, still slightly breathless with laughter. “I think it’s time you became acquainted with the universe.” And with that, he slams his palm across the bridge of your forehead, and the room goes dark.

\---

_Here is a galaxy, sweeping and white and wide with stars._

_Here is a single cell, simple and perfect and made for the act of living._

_here is the world and the oceans and the sky and the sun and the nights and the deep blackness broken by stars and here are the things and the souls here is everything and here is nothing_

_here is the great eye and the webs and the blood made of stars running through its veins and here is the mouth and the heart and here is it all_

\---

You wake up surrounded by green. After a moment you realize you are lying on the floor of Doctor Scratch’s room, staring up at the ceiling. Carefully, you push yourself into a sitting position and rub your aching temples.

“Awake?” Doc Scratch says cheerfully.

“Yes,” you groan, though personally you’d rather not be. This is like every nightmare hangover you’ve ever head in one travel-sized package. It feels like the whole universe has been packed into your body, and it’s trying to squeeze its way out.

Which is the exact, literal truth, but still.

“You know,” you say, carefully trying to stand. “That the universe is actually some sort of—”

_Frog_ , you think but can’t bear to say. “—Creature? I always thought that was rather more of a metaphor, myself.”

“The universe is ever-surprising, my dear Snowman.” 

“Snowman? Not you too.”

“But of course! You’ll take the name of your own volition someday, so being a being of a rather… chronologically enhanced persuasion, it’s only logical for my employer and myself to start using the name now. Saves time, you see. Not that I have any shortage of that. Hoo hoo.”

Standing is proving rather difficult when the floor insists on moving around underneath you. Sitting for a while longer seems like a good idea.

“Anyway, perhaps you might be more interested in the more… immediate effects of your new powers? Not that universal understanding isn’t quite exciting, of course.”

Oh. Right. Between all the headache-ing and epiphany-ing, you almost forgot what you came here for. You look down at your forearm, carefully examining it against the green light. It’s nothing obvious, but when you look from just the right angle you can see tiny pinpoint of light embedded into your arm. You are, quite literally, made of stars.

“Huh.”

You focus, pulling at the space you can _feel_ inside your head, as real and immediate as any physical thing, shifting it against the inside of your shell. And just like that, your arm shifts, turning into a two-dimensional slice of blackness. There’s nothing to see through the window but the tiny lights of faraway stars, but you know where the portal leads nonetheless—it’s as familiar to you as your own body.

Doctor Scratch sighs from across the room. “I’d so hoped to file that, you know.” He sounds almost reproachful, like it’s _your_ fault Lord English ate it. “Not that it matters in the end, I suppose.” 

“But I digress.” Doctor Scratch turns to you, taking short strides across the room until he’s standing above you. 

You take his outstretched hand, steadying yourself, and then brush a few imaginary specks of dust off your coat. You look down at him, and somehow, impossibly, he smiles back up at you.

“Welcome to The Felt.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for R1 of this years HSO, but I ended up missing the submission deadline. Hopefully it still stands on its own!


End file.
